What Happened in Winter [boyxboy]

Chapter Thirty-Six

Craft POV

The ending of another recording of Jayson playing piano (Debussy now, not Chopin) trilled to its end, rattling Craft's thoughts around his skull. But, it wasn't that he was really thinking anything, just vague sketches of what he might say and how awkward this would be. And how emotional it might get.

Craft preferred to rip his band-aids off. It was quick and efficient and the pain didn't last very long. Rip, sting, and done. That's what he intended on doing now.

Rip.
Sting.
Done.

But he wasn't sure that's how it would go. Because anyone other than himself was absurdly complex, stories intermingling with stanzas and one-liners to create the epic poem that made up a persons' character. Each trauma was a dark blot of ink, smearing the milky page of memory and Craft liked to keep his gently tucked away between the pages of an old book after Jayson's murder had rendered his memory page illegible.

He was coming here to open that book and unfold that page, taking a long hard look at what was and what always will be. A mess.

With a sigh, Craft left the warmth of his vehicle to step over the cemetery grass. Always perfectly cut and edges never overgrown. Jayson would've hated to know he was buried in an uppity place like this. Craft made his way to the only grave that meant anything to him and sat down in the grass, warmed by the shaft of sunlight through the trees.

"I listened to you play Nocturn on my way over," Craft said awkwardly, staring at the name of his ex-everything. "I know you hated playing, but it was beautiful. Always beautiful."

Craft went silent then, shifting his gaze to the epitaph under that name. "Loving brother, son, and friend to all. Our sunshine boy." Craft felt the sun squeeze his shoulders.

"Sometimes I feel like you're still here. Watching me. Making comments on the stupid shit I do. It's like I can almost hear your voice, but... I can't quite understand you. Sometimes I wake up in the morning, expecting to see you at school. Or on my doorstep. Or in my bed. I... I miss you... but I have no right to miss you. I have no right to sit and cry because I'm the one that fucked it up. I'm always... fucking everything up." Craft's voice cracked and he covered his face, pressing his fingers over his eyelids to keep from crying.

Jay's tombstone stared back expectingly.

"I knew you loved me. That was what I blamed it on, that you didn't really love me, but that's what you should've been saying to me. I was too scared and too insecure to believe you could love me like that. You should've thrown so many of the words I spoke in my face. I know you could see how fearful I was of rejection and our parents finding out. I was afraid of love in general. And you tried so hard to show me how much you cared, but I was blinded by shame."

Craft scoffed and looked up through the branches above, glimpsing the bright azure of the sky. He thought of River's eyes when he laughed.

"It's kinda funny. You remember that friend I had before I met you? The one I always talked about? He goes to our school now. It's crazy how life happens like that: tears us apart to bring us back together again," Craft said, a faint smile on his lips. His smile fell as he said next, "I was in love with him. I think you already knew that, with how jealous you got. My mother is the one who made us stop being friends. She caught on very quickly because... I think she may also be shameful of the person she really is.

"I'm sorry that I was so blind and unwilling to let you close to me. I'm sorry that I couldn't say this to you when you were alive. I live with a lot of regret and I'm trying to move forward. I've been stagnant for too long." Craft lifted his gaze and stretched an arm out to rest his hand on the slightly-too-warm granite of the tombstone. With slight of hand, Craft accidentally knocked the white bear with the initials "J+A" stitched on its tummy.

As it toppled over and thudded to the ground, its head popped off. It wasn't made out of stuffing and cloth like previously thought. It was plastic with a velvety overlay. Craft picked up the now decapitated bear and peered inside. A part of Craft had figured something would be inside, but a folded piece of notebook paper and a penny were not what he was expecting.

Still sitting, Craft shook the penny into his hand and unfolded the note. It looked like it could've been written yesterday, but the writing was unmistakably Jayson's. All bold letters, like his pen might've pierced the paper if more pressure had been applied.

"Dear Craft,

I know you're the only one who's going to read this. You're the only person who would think to look for more reasons. Or maybe you're just clumsy.

I know you're probably confused. I was, too, until it all finally clicked together. I've done some very bad things in my life. Some of the things you were a first-hand target of and other things you don't know and I hope you never find out.

I've always been very happy and a good person to talk to. People love me and I try my best for people. But, the only person I ever wanted to shine for wasn't ready to except me. And no matter how I want to move on and bury my problems and keep smiling for everyone... I can't continue to do that.

I'm sorry I slept with Angel. I foolishly thought that hooking up with her might snap you out of whatever stupor you were in. But, I learned very quickly that you can't force someone to feel things they don't want to.

I'm sorry for what I'm going to do and how it may hurt and how it will hurt the people around us. I have to be selfish one more time.

Please take care of Greyson. You know how sick he gets and how moody he can be. He's going to take this hard and I need you to be there when I can't be.

Be kind to Angel. She hasn't done anything wrong. I led her on. It was my fault.

I think it's time for me to end this. To end my life. You won't get this until after I die, but, just know I went quickly. I bought a gun and bullets a few weeks ago. I only needed one bullet, but it turns out you have to buy a whole box. Go figure.

Goodbye, Craft. I'll always love you. You were always as pretty as a penny.

Jayson."

It was like Craft was hearing the ghost of Jay whisper in his ear, the muffled memory-sound of a gunshot going off in his head, the way Jayson could still joke around, writing something like this. Craft gripped the paper with one hand, his fingernails threatening to tear the paper, and squeezed the penny tightly in the other. Tears dripped off the tip of his nose and blemished the paper, swirling the blue-black ink in the beads of salty tears.

Jayson had meant to commit suicide that day. He had meant to shoot himself. Instead, he had used those bullets, used his one chance, to save Greyson. In the end, Jayson still would have died and Craft wasn't sure which scenario was worse.

"Christ, Jay," Craft hissed. "You could've talked to me. You could've confided in me."

But, Craft knew that wasn't true. He had been so wrapped up in his own self-pity and self-rejection that there was no room to help someone else. Especially when it had been Craft's actions that had played a role in Jayson Ivanov's demise. Part of Craft felt he was no better than the kid who murdered him that day. No better than that rat-faced boy, slicing Greyson's arm open and shooting his brother in the face, sixteen bullets piercing his flesh and bone.

Before Craft could get a word out, he felt someone lean against his back, a hand on his shoulder, cold lips against his ear saying, "It's okay. Just let me go."

"But- how I treated you! How could I just-"

"Dust in the wind. We understand each other now. So, let me go."

And Craft let Jayson go.

Rip.
Sting.
Done.